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On Sunday Becoming Sunday Suddenly

the west and the north and the south but the east
There is something in it that we see not so bright
and something in the direction so wrong
But for their being bright or wrong is just a reality

For all the people are not people
for they are people only when they are people
There is something so strange in calling them people;
Yet it is also so strange realising they are people
After all, they are people who have always been people.

For all the lives we are living
Suddenly when we realise it’s a life we are living
It is strange, for all these days, death was only alive
There is something different in being dead
and then alive, and it’s not dead but alive we are.

When the gunman talk about love for his land
When the politicoman talk about love for his land
When the armyman talk about love for his land
There is a difference, as if talking about different lands
Different kinds of love, but their love it is for the same land.

And when you talk about your kind of country
And when I talk about my kind of country
The worlds are so world apart
And it is strange how the thoughts were imparted
For the country is the same country but that is not same for us.

When the master built the bridge over nothing
I went to the newspaper with a thank-you note for the master
For the favour and a feeling that some gratitude be expressed
So what if it is his obligation — and I realised it suddenly, oh —
And then repeat the same thing when he offers another bridge.

When a Sunday is raped of its Sundayness
There is something missing about this Sunday
And while we are lost, mulling over what it has lost
It is so strange all the Sundays have been Sundays all along
On no other weekdays but on their own have the Sundays lived.